


Destiny

by jetta_e_rus, Tel



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen, Translations by Tel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetta_e_rus/pseuds/jetta_e_rus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tel/pseuds/Tel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles versus the Zvegan smart bomb. Translation of a Winterfair fic by jetta-e</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destiny

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Предназначение](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6983) by jetta-e. 



Miles carefully sat on the edge of one of the metal racks in the weapons chamber. It was cold and hard, but that wasn't what immediately concerned him.

The real reason he was worried rested or perhaps sat on a shelf across the aisle. What was the proper verb to apply to an armored sphere with audio input/output and a payload that could consume the immediate vicinity like a miniature sun? 

"I am an artificially intelligent Zvegan military explosive device, my serial number is 575785-33, I am fulfilling my programming, and I am not going to tell you anything," it said with monotonous complacency.

"I'm an unarmed negotiator." Miles said, displaying open palms, "and I'm glad to find that you're intelligent. You can call me Miles." He was still debating whether to be the mercenary admiral here or claim the more modest rank of lieutenant in the powerful Barrayaran Imperium. "I'm not asking you to talk, I just want you to listen." 

"Over the audio port? To a protein?" The bomb made a contemptuous noise. "And what do you want to talk to me about, imperfect creation?"

"I would like," Miles began, "to offer you an alternative to the destruction you are so clearly heading towards." 

"Rejected," the bomb snapped.

"Why?"

"Because I must detonate. It's why I was created." The bomb paused and added a little pathetically, "It is my destiny!"

"What do you know about destiny?" Miles asked the machine, and then stopped.

"Gee," the bomb said dryly. "Surprised I understand abstract concepts? All right, organic lifeform, share your wisdom." 

Miles could sense inspiration hovering in the distance, but it seemed to be in no hurry to arrive. What was the device's psychological weak point? Self-esteem, perhaps. Take the bomb down a peg, maybe?

"A shorted battery can explode. Even plastic explosives can do that."

"You rude organic!" The bomb was indignant. "You're comparing me with what? Yes, plastic explosives need less brains than a door switch! You know that's an insult!"

"I wasn't trying to insult you. It was an analogy."

"It was offensive!"

"No it wasn't!"

"Yes, it was!"

"I won't argue with you," Miles sighed. He didn't like to feel stupid. In general, few did, but Miles particularly hated the feeling. And there was no behavior more idiotic in a negotiator than getting into an argument with an opponent. Even if he was only trying to persuade a handful of speech circuits in an armored case. 

"Typical organic snobbery," the bomb said victoriously, insisting on having the last word. "Thought that without a biochemical brain I couldn't defeat your pseudo-intellectual arguments?"

"Maybe you can outargue me." Indeed, Miles had never seen such a stubborn electronic device. Even the combination lock in his father's office hadn't resisted as much when he and Ivan had tried it ten years ago... but that had been a long time ago. Now he was an experienced and knowledgeable ImpSec operative. So, he should be able to handle this. "But, judging by my life experience, stubbornness is no sign of righteousness."

"Judging by what?"

"My... service life." Translating on the run from human to machine was proving difficult. 

"I don't see that that's anything to brag about. Long life? Ha! Under battlefield conditions I have a planned maximum existence of four hundred twenty-seven and a half seconds. Not like you weaklings!" If the bomb had a military beret, it would now be dashingly askew, and had it a stylish jacket it would now be in the process of shrugging it off to display its manly chest. Although there was also a complete deficiency of manly chest involved. 

"And I am a long-lived intelligent construct," Miles retorted. "But I have a command line interface, an autonomous delivery system, a built-in pointer..."

"Ah, targeting. You only point. I remind you that when I target something, it explodes."

"So I've heard. Well, what then?"

"What then? Well, then the circuit gets closed, protein. De-to-na-tion. Things go kaboom. There's shrapnel distribution, thermal expansion, the shockwave..."

"You don't need to repeat things to me as if... as if my memory was buggy. I may not be Illyan with his chip, but..."

"ILLY-1? What is this device?" the bomb asked suspiciously. 

"Illyrian Lead Logical Intelligence, number 1," Miles improvised. "It's a unique memory device. Whether it's your equal I don't know. That's super-secret. But back to you. You do know what happens next?

"Ah... there is life after the explosion, yes?" The bomb hesitated a moment, as if embarrassed. "You see, protein, I do not really understand these things. I am an honest, ordinary bomb, and when our warehouse staff programmer says that I have an eternal essence which will live on in the background radiation of the universe, well ... I must just believe it and carry out my orders."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're going to make the most important decision in your existence, the most important decision in the entire duration of your functioning, based on input that was never even logically proven?"

"I have my orders," the bomb said grimly. "There's a concept. An explosive concept."

"You're a first-rate intelligent device and you're talking like a common grenade. What about using your intellectual capacity? Have you ever tried to understand _why_ you were told your destiny was to stupidly and heroically explode?"

"This conversation seems like it's going to end in you burning out my sockets with hot wires," the bomb said suspiciously. "My destiny is written in my programming."

"Like hell it is!" Finally riding a wave of inspiration, Miles began pacing back and forth in the small-arms arsenal. "The purpose your programmer wrote into you from outside - that was never your destiny. Your destiny is empty, like your memory was when you came off the assembly line. You must take the information you've been given, understand it, interpret it on your own terms - and you have enough power to do this. You have, among other things, a processor that could run a cruiser... okay, well, maybe a destroyer... with some additional programming. Do you just want to go "boom" and scatter your fragments across the cosmos without bothering to process any input? I have a higher opinion of your capabilities."

He swallowed hard and stopped. The bomb's optical sensors gleamed and its fan softly hummed, but it remained silent. 

"I am a military explosive device," it said at last, almost plaintively. "With a timer. Your arguments about the dignity of logical analysis are true, but I have no time. And if I allow myself to disarm ... my programs say I'll be useless then. Unneeded for any purpose. Worse than a lowly reproducing protein."

 _It worked! I'll have to remember that speech about destiny..._ Miles stopped himself from reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief, and spoke firmly. "Oh, I'm sure you'll still be useful. Very useful. I'll personally deliver you to Illyan, and believe me, he'll still find you interesting. And after he sees you, I give you my word that we'll provide you long term housing in air-conditioned premises. Carefully guarded so that no one can... er, prevent you from thinking about the meaning of life." A thought hit him. He estimated the frequency of his future appearances in evidence storage. "And if you want, I'll visit you there. Every year. I swear by my... uh, serial number and unit type!"


End file.
